Starting
by Quinara
Summary: (Response to a ficathon challenge) After the Season finale, Spike and Illyria talk, and begin to deal with their grief.


**Starting  
By Quinara**

**Requirements: The survivors coming to terms with their grief. Spike and Illyria.  
Restrictions: Not too dark. A bit of angst is good, though.  
Rating: PG  
Pairing: None (Hints of Illyria/Wesley, though)**

******For _jidabug_**

"Feeling blue, Blue?"

It was clear that Illyria was not impressed by his feeble attempt at humour.

Deciding to ignore her silence and misery, Spike turned back to the TV screen, where Kirby was taunting him. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd seen the same thing in the last few days – It had to be hundreds, probably thousands….

He couldn't remember when his Mario addiction had begun, but knew that he and Illyria had been feeding it every day for the past two weeks. They had already completed the main series, after getting bored with _Donkey Kong_, and had now moved onto _Super Smash Bros_. He didn't love it, but it passed the time.

At least he didn't have to worry about rescuing the princess any more.

"So, ready for another go?" He asked, hoping for the distraction.

Illyria remained silent, and Spike felt himself growing restless. He needed a smoke.

He was about to lean over and get one, when Illyria's calm shattered, and she hurled her controller across the room.

"I draw no pleasure from this." She snarled, her face curling with disgust. Spike was unnerved, but also, quite disconnectedly, glad that he had moved the X-Box to the floor.

His energy was gone now, though, so his reply was calm,

"'s 'cause we've been playing it for hours."

He took a swig of the beer sitting next to him. It was an obvious tell, but he doubted that Illyria had ever played poker.

"A lie." She said, turning away from him. "It is a lie." He snorted through his beer. Obviously Fred had been more accomplished than he had thought. There was so much he'd never found out….

He supposed this was the time that he and Illyria would finally talk.

"Look, Illyria,…."

"It follows no logic." Logic? "Your…plumber…has been killed, yet he will continue to live when we fight again." Oh, right.

She was talking about the _game_ . He didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

"Yeah, well… not if I leave 'im in the dust and use that poncey elf instead." As usual, his mouth was keeping up with the conversation by spouting rubbish. Stopping himself, he tried to get back on track,

"The game isn't a lie, Blue." His voice was controlled now, if quieter. "It can't be. It's a _game_."

He might as well have continued to spout rubbish, however, for the indignant reply he got.

"All lower beings are bound by the rules of this realm. As much as your kind chooses to reject them, they are your governors. This being does not follow these rules, and therefore it is a lie." He gave up trying to make sense of it all.

"But Mario isn't a being! He's just a picture, made of…electricity."

"Electricity." It was clear she had never considered the word before. "This electricity portrays human form. This portrayal is not correct, as all humans die when they are killed, for they are fragile creatures. The electricity is lying."

Something about this conversation was beginning to make him think he'd had too much beer. Not to mention scotch.

Still, he wanted to protest about the 'fragile creatures' bit, but this wasn't really the time for bringing up Buffy. Also, there was something else in what she was saying, which made him hold back. There was a hint of false conviction, which even he could see in his inebriated state.

"Oh, I see what this is about," He realised, with a jerk in his stomach, "This is about Wes…." He shut himself up. Hearing the words had sobered him, making the connection between brain and mouth a lot quicker than usual. It was probably a record.

Illyria refused to reply, and so they sat in silence. Spike did not know what to do. Sobriety had put his brain on high alert, and thoughts he didn't want were filling his consciousness.

He concentrated on Illyria instead. That aura of grief she'd had in the final battle was back, and this time there was nothing to be distracted with. He supposed the poor girl needed comforting, but he had no idea how to go about it.

He didn't even know if Illyria deserved comfort, or whether he wanted to give it. Any liking he had for her, and therefore obligation, could easily be chalked up to residual feelings for Fred.

Fred was always at the back of his mind when he was around Illyria. There was always a sense of familiarity, and resentment. Illyria was the only one left to blame for Fred's death, and shamefully he did. And now there was Wesley as well.

If Fred hadn't died, Wesley would have had something to live for. That was what it came down to. Which made Illyria, as the cause of Fred's death, the cause of Wesley's too. She had two lots of blood on her hands, and he saw them every time he looked at her.

He brushed the thoughts aside. It wasn't his place. Besides, Illyria was probably just as much as a tool as he was, and not particularly bad company. She was in pain, as they both were, and that was all that really mattered at the minute.

"Wesley asked me to presume her form as he died." The comment came out of nowhere, with restrained emotion, and Spike blinked in shock.

"Fred? He asked you to be Fred?" His first thoughts went to Wesley, and what must have happened that he would allow such an abomination. But then there was Blue herself, who it couldn't have been a picnic for.

"Yes." She sounded oddly proud. "And I agreed. It was clear he desired to be with her."

She dared him to question her, though behind the brashness there were hints of jealousy. And there was something else, something he couldn't quite pin down.

"He did not desire to be with me, so I did what I had to. For I desired to be with him." He almost groaned, at both the situation and his inability to have seen it coming.

"You fanc…had feelings for old Wes, then?" There was a sinking feeling in his gut.

"Many feelings. Many…disordered feelings." Spike laughed, bitterly. Didn't _that_ sound familiar. Illyria didn't seem to notice.

"Understand any of them?"

"Anger. Lust." He nodded. "But they were minor."

"'s probably for the best you can't work any out any others." He shifted in his chair, feeling a bit of authority on the subject. "These sort of things never end well." The moment he said it, however, he knew that it was the wrong thing to say.

"What sort of _things_?"

"Y'know. Mortals an'…people like us." He'd done it again.

"Do not compare yourself to me, vampire."

"Look," He was too tired for this, "I'm just saying that I'm gonna live a lot longer than anyone alive, an' you are too, probably, so we're in the same boat."

"I am far superior to your kind."

"Yeah, yeah, you're king of the beasties." He remembered now why they didn't talk.

"I was God-King of this realm."

"We've been through this!" He replied, getting annoyed. "The nasty little humans took away your throne and now you have to live like the rest of us."

"But that is no more," He tried to cut in, but she just continued, her anger dissipating, "And I am confined to this frail shell. I must fight lesser beings to retain this life, while around me others fall, and I find that I grieve for their deaths. And then, instead of slaughtering their murderers in revenge, I must remain here with a pestilential idiot who has ideas above his station, penned in like an animal."

He resented being called an idiot. But, that was Illyria's way, and he'd been called worse.

Illyria said nothing as he left the sofa. He didn't expect her to; she was sulking again.

He headed for the kitchen cabinets, and took out an unopened bottle of scotch. Checking the label, he poured two glasses and knocked one back. Grimacing with pleasure, he saluted Wesley's expensive taste using the empty glass. He poured another for himself, and carried both glasses back to the sofa.

Wordlessly, he offered one to Illyria.

"I have no wish to become intoxicated." He rolled his eyes; he knew she didn't drink. It had been obvious ever since that first night, before Angel had buggered off to be with wolf-girl. The half-hour long rant about how drinking was a human-weakness-that-she-would-never-indulge-in wasn't something he was going to forget in a hurry.

"It's not to drink, you silly bint." He sighed. "It's to bloody smell." She looked at him quizzically.

Cringing at his own sentimentality, he wafted the scotch under her nose.

"It smells of…." She took the glass out of his hands and cradled it to her.

He knocked his own back again, and sat down in his corner.

"I worry that I loved Wesley." Illyria said, after some time had passed, still cradling her glass.

"Yeah." Spike was feeling extremely tired. "Humans'll do that to you."

"But now he is dead."

"They do that as well." There was pause.

"What should I do now?"

How was he supposed to know? Being a vampire meant you weren't supposed to have to deal with things like death. Still, he knew the things they _had_ to do.

He reeled them off in an emotionless litany,

"Well, Gunn's mates've got that memorial thingy on Thursday…"

"Gunn." She cut in, remembering. "He did not deserve to be killed…" He paid no attention.

"An' then I s'pose we'll have to drop in on the good old Wyndam-Prices, since the bastards in authority sent Wes' body back to bloody Blighty…"

"It was a waste."

"An' from there? God knows. I doubt that Angel's gonna come back any time soon. He'll just keep un-livin' it up, while the rest of us are left to rot…" He trailed off.

"I do not wish to remain here." Illyria said, after a long time.

"Me neither, love. Me neither."


End file.
